Leia Wilson’s fight against Breast Cancer

Update from Leia Wilson: 


On March 25th at 7:41pm my phone rang and my heart dropped to my feet. Doctors don’t call on a Friday night, much less so if they have good news and so I let the call go to voicemail like anyone afraid for their life initially does. I listened to the voicemail, locked myself in my bedroom and called the number back and felt every muscle in my body tighten. Invasive ductile carcinoma, grade 3 - a fast growing lump of cancer cells in my left breast. It had only been one day since my first biopsy. I awkwardly thanked the doctor for calling me, and to tell you the truth, I don’t really remember much of the call at all. I wandered downstairs, cracked open a white claw, sat on the steps of the back porch and called my mom.

 Since that night I have been caught in the whirlwind of a new and terrifying and unbelievably common diagnosis – stage IIb breast cancer. I have undergone two separate biopsies, the second of which was to confirm that the cancer had invaded my axillary lymph node, which it has. I have had appointments with breast surgeons, oncologists, radiologists, and a genetic counselor. I have had ultrasounds and mammograms and crushed my poor breasts in at least one million ways, none of which I can recommend, all of which were painful and horrendously necessary. I’ve had CT scans, a bone scan, blood draws, an MRI and will have a PET scan in the coming week and what bothers me most of all is the thought that invades practically every waking moment of my life - I have cancer. I still really can’t believe it. It haunts me while I sleep and I wake up and remember that yes, it is real. Not make believe. Not someone else, but me. I’m only 36. Only 36. How is this even possible?

 I can’t stand it. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I feel like I can’t touch my own body, put a bra on without accidently touching it. I’m repulsed by it. I want it out.

 So, after 16 separate appointments, I will be getting my port placed for chemotherapy on Friday, April 22nd. My heart skipped a little while I wrote that last part as if I’m in some kind of bizarre fear induced fever dream where I imagined that somehow I would get away without this whole “red devil” chemo cocktail. I’m going to lose my hair. And yes, believe me, I have heard from some that I might not, but I think the denial of an extremely real side effect and very tough part of my lifesaving treatment is more of a well-meaning defense mechanism offered by the people who love and care for me in effort to protect my heart and soul. And trust me, I get it. I’m not going to like chemo. I’m not going to like losing my hair or feeling like I’ve been run over by a train. I’m afraid of vomiting with a port in, which even as I write this seems so silly, so trivial I suppose, but it’s a fear I have and I know they have medicine for that too. I think one of the hard parts for me about my chemo will be that my disease will look real. People will know I’m sick. My kids will know I’m sick and I think that breaks my heart more than anything as of yet.

 But… I think that I am going to finally be able to breathe when they inject me with that red devil because I will become part of my own solution. Part of breaking this cancer down. My cancer down. My anxiety has been fed on the idea that I am so passive at the moment and has grown as insidiously as the cancer cells themselves. I feel helpless. Vulnerable. Insecure about my future. I have flashes of my children that flicker through my brain and then my eyes fill up with tears and I choke them back dig my fingernails into my skin to snap me out of it. I firmly refuse to leave them. Hard pass. And so I grit my teeth and shake the future away from my mind. I have to be mindful to live right here, and right now. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day and night by night. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, and I’ve done some really hard, next level, soul shattering shit.

 After chemotherapy I will have surgery and that surgery hinges on the results of my genetic testing. If I have the BRCA gene then once again, I have basically very little choice, if any at all. I will have a bilateral mastectomy to make sure that I have no breast tissue left for cancer to invade again. “Oh! Think of how perky your boobs will be!” “You can be any size that you want!” Again, just like the hair ordeal, I am not salivating at the thought of a boob job I never wanted and yes I still understand that it is well meant, just something I never thought I’d hear. To be honest, I don’t even know if I will get reconstruction. I don’t know how I feel about a lot of things at the moment, again, just trying to take it minute by minute at this point which, if you’ve ever been in a situation such as mine, or something time sensitive and complicated and scary beyond belief (whatever that may be) you know this whole minute by minute thing is really, really, really hard.

But I can do hard things. I can do the most difficult things really, really, really well. If I don’t have the BRCA gene and we are successful at shrinking my cancer (which we will be, I refuse to have it any other way) then I will have a lumpectomy to remove the tissue affected by breast cancer and any affected lymph nodes. The goal of the chemo is to have as minimally invasive surgery as possible. Again, just waiting for those genes. All this waiting is for the birds.

 Eventually, at some point after all the chemo and surgery and scans and radiation I will be cancer free. I have to say this to myself because some days I’m not sure that I believe it. And so I repeat it over and over and over once more. I’m going to beat it. I’ve got this… I’ve got this… I’ve got this… I’ve got this… I can do it. I WILL DO IT. But sometimes I just need to hear it out loud. Sometimes I need people to tell me what my heart knows is true until my brain completely believes it. I’ve got this. I can do it. This is a fight that I will win.

 In closing I just want to thank each and every person who thinks of me or prays for me or donates towards this fundraiser, my fundraiser. I am blown away by the support. I really don’t even have words for it but I will conjure them the best I know how. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Without all of the kindness, emotional support, financial support, text messages and phone calls (I do get all the texts and calls but sometimes I don’t answer because I am trying to preserve my mental health) I can honestly say I don’t know what we would do. I have been able to begin navigating this new world knowing that, with your help, I can put my health and my family first. You have no idea what that feels like. I have been able to take an indefinite medical leave from work and know that my family will not starve, that our lights will stay on and cars will not be repossessed. Cancer treatment is expensive, outrageously so, and each and every donation, no matter the amount, makes a difference and helps alleviate the burden that seems to hang as heavily some days as the disease itself.

 I am humbled. I am grateful. I am in awe. I’ve got this. I can do it. I will do it. I will beat this cancer with your help. My hair will grow and my body will heal and this journey will continue on because I refuse to have it any other way.